


enumeration

by floraltohru



Category: Fruits Basket, Fruits Basket (Anime 2019), Fruits Basket - Takaya Natsuki (Manga)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Field Trip, First Dates, Fluff and Angst, Pining, anyway this is not a happy ending, is it a first date if they don't say it's a date?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:13:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24480013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floraltohru/pseuds/floraltohru
Summary: Art galleries. Wrist touches. A list of things.-“I didn’t know you liked art, Kyo,” Tohru says, studying the pamphlet in front of her. She runs a hand over the glossy paper, traces the elegant font announcing a new exhibit at a nearby university’s gallery.“I don’t really care one way or the other,” he says, fighting a blush. “But I don’t want you going by yourself and zoning out or something.”
Relationships: Honda Tohru/Sohma Kyou
Comments: 18
Kudos: 97





	enumeration

“I didn’t know you liked art, Kyo,” Tohru says, studying the pamphlet in front of her. She runs a hand over the glossy paper, traces the elegant font announcing a new exhibit at a nearby university’s gallery. 

“I don’t really care one way or the other,” he says, fighting a blush. “But I don’t want you going by yourself and zoning out or something.” 

“That’s very kind of you,” she says. “I don’t have to work this weekend. Maybe we could go in the morning. It won’t be as crowded.” 

He nods stiffly before leaving her alone with the rest of the dinner prep. He needs to hit something or go for a run, anything to let out all of his leftover combustibility. 

Trains make him nervous; he’s anxious enough about going to a gallery in the first place. Every woman in there is a chance for something to go wrong. 

So they set out just after the sun rises, walking in tandem down the sidewalk. Tohru has a talent for filling the silence between them with stories, and Kyo does his best to follow along as she details the latest drama befalling one of her coworkers, but it’s difficult to pay attention to what she’s saying when she’s saying it so vibrantly. 

“Do you think so?” she asks at last, pinning him with an expectant stare. He almost trips over his own feet scrambling to answer, settling for a noncommittal grunt. 

His heart twists when she laughs at him. 

“What?”

“Nothing. You know, you kind of go to your own world sometimes too,” Tohru says, nudging him lightly in the side with her elbow. 

“I do not,” he protests, but he can feel himself blushing, a faint pink creeping around his neck and up his cheeks. 

“Oh, I think we’re almost there.” Tohru stops teasing him long enough to rummage around in her purse for the pamphlet. She squints at the address for a moment, and when she leans closer to show it to him, he can smell her shampoo. “Is it this street or the next one?” 

“The next one, I think,” he says, trying not to breathe in too deeply. 

Her hair fans out behind her when she takes off again down the sidewalk, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Kyo doesn’t realize he’s still standing there, dumbstruck, until she turns around to look at him. “Kyo? Are you coming?” 

“Oh. Sorry,” he says, shaking himself out of his stupor. He jams his hands deep into his pockets and follows behind her, trying not to stare like a creep. 

That’s getting increasingly difficult these days. 

They find the gallery and make their way inside not long after it opens. Tohru was right; this early it isn’t too crowded. Kyo doesn’t know much about art and he doesn’t remember what the theme of this particular exhibition is. Even if he did, he’d lose all coherent thought at the sight of Tohru, utterly enraptured as she flits from one piece to another. 

The third time Kyo turns to ask Tohru about a painting and she’s not there, he finds her across the room and wraps his fingers around her wrist. “You keep wandering off,” he says. He keeps his hand there, and she doesn’t stray from his side. 

The art is fine, he supposes. Kyo’s no critic. But he’s hardly paying attention; he’s much more interested in the color theory of Tohru’s eyes and the brush strokes that make up her tender fingers, pressed to her lips thoughtfully as she leans in to examine each canvas. 

He could stay like this forever, just Kyo and Tohru and the crisp, clean lines that make up the gallery space, but Tohru finally breaks out of her trance and looks around once the gallery starts to fill with other - probably more seasoned - art enthusiasts. 

“We should probably go,” she says absently, eyes still locked on a painting she’s come back to a handful of times already. It’s soft and pastel, as far as Kyo can tell, but the canvas is strangely shaped. He’s not sure what that means. 

“Probably,” he agrees, but they stand there for a few more moments until she tears her eyes away. 

She moves for the door, his hand still wrapped around her wrist. 

“I’m starving,” Kyo announces once they’re outside, blinking in the sunlight. He lets her wrist go and flexes his fingers; it’s like a spell has been broken. 

“What would you like me to cook for lunch?” she asks. “We can stop at the grocery store on the way back.” 

“I’m starving now,” he says. He scans the block for a restaurant, landing upon a tonkatsu place across the street. “Come on. Let me get you lunch.” 

“Oh, I-”

“It’s only fair,” he says, and he hopes his voice doesn’t sound too sharp, but he worries it does anyway. “You cook for us all the time. I should be able to buy you lunch.” 

“Okay,” she says at last, and she follows him across the street and into the restaurant. 

“So,” he says on the way back to Shigure’s house after they've had their fill. “What did you think of the art?” 

Tohru tries her best to articulate her opinions, but she gets self-conscious when she stumbles over her words. “Sorry, I’m rambling,” she says at last. 

“It’s fine. You’re allowed to ramble,” he says, and he feels his mouth quirking at the corners despite his best efforts. 

“You’re laughing at me,” she says. It’s not an accusation, exactly, but perhaps a challenge. 

“Maybe,” he says, giving her a noncommittal shrug. 

“I probably sound silly,” she admits. 

“It’s cute,” he says. And then he thinks he turns redder than any paint shade in existence; Stuart Semple would be impressed. 

“You think so?” she says, and she’s smiling, and he thinks -  _ hopes _ \- that maybe she thought he meant cute in the most platonic, friendly way possible. 

It’ll hurt worse otherwise. 

Kyo counts the stairs to the top of Shigure’s house as he goes, and he wonders how many more times he’ll get to climb them with her. 

Tohru grabs his hand outside the front door, then stares at it for a moment as though she doesn’t know what to do with it. Her smiles have all taken on a faint shadow; he feels a physical ache in his chest every time he notices that they don’t quite reach her eyes. 

She offers him one of them now, shaded with something bittersweet. 

“I should go see if Yuki and Shigure have eaten,” she says. “Thank you for today.” She squeezes his hand before she leaves him there in front of the door in a swirl of skirt and hair and ribbons and the lingering scent of strawberry. 

Art galleries. Cherry blossom viewings. New restaurants. Shrine visits. Not exactly cliff-diving or a hot air balloon ride, but the idea is still there. 

It’s not like it’s a formal thing, Kyo reasons later, staring up at the sky from Shigure’s roof. It’s not like he’s actually writing all this stuff down. It’s not like he’s keeping score, racing against a ticking clock trying to get things done. It’s not like it’s actually a bucket list. 

Okay, so maybe it is actually a bucket list. 

But there are a million little things Kyo will never have enough of to last him a lifetime in captivity; if he tried to collect as many as he needs, his list would stretch to the next star system. The way Tohru’s eyes go wide when he taps his knuckles against her head to bring her back to reality, the set to her brow when she’s fiercely determined about something, the way she cries at movies and stray cats, the little songs she hums to herself while she does her chores, the way her hand feels in his every time he pulls her back to safety. 

Kyo chronicles and catalogues, files each mental image away gently to be pulled out when he needs them most. 

He falls asleep imagining a dark room and tiny pinpricks of light like stars. 


End file.
